


don't make me fall in love again

by sapphirestylan



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Crying, Gingerbread Houses, Hot Chocolate, M/M, Mistletoe, Snow Angels, all sorts of christmassy things because surprise! it's a christmas fic, midnight mass, what do we have here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-08
Updated: 2019-02-08
Packaged: 2019-10-24 05:54:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17698886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sapphirestylan/pseuds/sapphirestylan
Summary: Harry’s face is close, close enough that he can smell the peppermint tea on his breath, eyes crinkled up with laughter lines and how hard he’s smiling. Niall’s eyes drop to his teeth, the two front ones slightly bigger than the rest, and his face is so familiar it makes him feel warm all over even though his jumper is rucked up and there’s snow stinging cold on the strip of bare skin there. If he closes his eyes, forgets the cold, they could be 18 and wrestling on the floor of the tour bus, or 22, fumbling about on a hotel bed and laughing their way through sex. 25, now, sinking into the snow.





	don't make me fall in love again

**Author's Note:**

  * For [byesexualniall](https://archiveofourown.org/users/byesexualniall/gifts).



> first of all, huge thank you to gwen (byesexualniall) for reading through/reviewing the unfinished, unedited version of this; you're a real one love you :* (also hope you appreciate how i told u i'd gift you this fic like a month and a half ago for christmas and it finally happened) 
> 
> secondly- "but jenna, this is a CHRISTMAS fic! it's fEBruARY!1!1!!!!" ....better late than never?
> 
>  
> 
> (title from 'santa tell me' by ariana grande)

Niall’s not sure how he got here.

Here, as in, riding shotgun in a nondescript private car with his sunnies jammed on his face and baseball hat pulled down low over his eyes, overheating in his cosiest jumper and the scarf wrapped around his throat. Here, as in, driving through the streets of Holmes Chapel, Cheshire, instead of sitting in his drafty house in Mullingar, surrounded by roaring laughter and familiar Irish brogue and empty beer bottles. Here, as in, heading to Harry’s house to spend Christmas with him and his family.

He’d stared at his phone for a straight ten minutes when he’d gotten the text last week, standing motionless in the middle of his kitchen without even blinking.

_di u want to come t homes Chapel w me for  xmas ??_

Niall pulled the text to the left. It’d been sent at 2:34 AM the previous night - well, that morning, technically, and he doesn’t have to be a genius to know Harry had been drunk when he sent it. Even for a drunk text, though, it was so random it took him a while to even process it. For starters, while he’d seen Harry a couple times through September, they hadn’t spoken all that much. Asking him home for Christmas seemed like a big jump, especially since Niall had never done that before, even when they were together and in the band.

Just the day before, though, the storms had picked up over Ireland and all flights into Dublin were cancelled, squashing his plans to fly home for Christmas. He wonders now, belatedly, if Harry had seen it on the news or something and then offered him, if he would’ve done it even if Niall had plans.

Anyways, Niall decided, curled up on the couch in his shorts and a t-shirt because LA never gets cold, that he’s done crazier things in his life than asking Harry if he meant it. Which, as it turns out, he did. Niall only barely needled the answer out of him, and it required a lot of awkward small talk and beating around the bush before he managed to coax Harry into asking him again, sober this time. He went on and on about how sad it was that he couldn’t see his family, and how he missed Theo something awful, blah blah blah. Not that it wasn’t true, because he really was gutted over not being able go home - but admittedly, he _was_ laying it on a little thick. They’d already said their goodbyes when Niall went, _give my love to Anne,_ and Harry blurted, _could give it to her in person, if you wanted._

Niall held his breath.

 _Erm, I think I’ve already asked you, but if you wanted, uhm_ , and there was a ten second pause of dead silence here, _you could come home with me? To Holmes Chapel, I mean. For Christmas. Like, if you. Like if you wanted. If you’ve got nowhere to be. It’s kind of stupid, now that I think about it, you’ve probably got plans, sorry, forget I asked--_

 _I’d love to,_ Niall cut him off, laughing, and he could hear Harry’s surprised smile through the phone. Harry’s right, it is a little strange to be spending Christmas with your ex, but he and Harry have never been a normal case, and that was - what, three years ago? Plus, he figures Harry could ask him a decade from now, _do you want to spend Christmas with me,_ even if they’ve had years of radio silence - and some part of him would say yes without hesitation.

So that’s how he ends up here, on the 18th of December, slinging his bag over his shoulder, skin pale and splotchy from the biting cold as he stands on the Twist household’s doormat and pushes the doorbell for the second time.

 _“Coming!_ ” a familiar voice yells from inside the house, and Niall’s heartbeat ticks up a notch as he listens to the thud of footsteps come closer. His palms don’t even have time to get sweaty before the door is swinging open to reveal Harry with a smile on his face so wide it might just split in two, and Niall feels himself mirroring it back as he steps into the warmth of Harry’s open arms, hugging him tight and breathing in the smell of his cologne.

“I’ve missed you,” Harry says quietly into the side of his neck, and Niall grins bigger.

“Missed you too."

They stand there for a moment or two longer, and then Harry grumbles, “Alright, don’t let the cold in,” but he’s still smiling as he pulls Niall into the house, hand slipping down to his elbow and staying there as the shuts the door behind him. “Mum!” he yells. “Niall’s here!”

Harry turns towards him abruptly, frowning and opening his mouth to tell him something - but a few moments later, Anne comes bustling down the hallway, arms already wide open and a beaming smile on her face. Niall pushes past Harry, who makes a miffed noise but doesn’t say any more as he wraps Anne up in a tight hug. Seeing her already has a wave of nostalgia coming over him, reminding him of poking his head into Harry’s Facetimes with her when he was homesick on tour and waving hello, of comforting embraces and kind words when they were on the X Factor.

Anne pulls away, cupping his face in her hands. “Look at you, all grown up! It’s so good to see you.” Niall’s nodding, about to return the sentiment, when she adds, “and it’s even better to see the two of you back together again.”

He freezes almost comically, mind whirring blankly as he struggles to piece together what she could have meant. Surely she doesn’t think-

“Well, you know,” Harry cuts in, grinning as he loops an arm around Niall’s waist. “Rekindling old flames, and all that.” He squeezes at Niall’s hip hard.

He’s still floundering, lost as to what the fuck Harry told her and _why_ he seems intent on letting her believe it - but he plasters on the most manufactured smile that’s ever graced his face and tries not to look uncomfortable. It shouldn’t convince anybody with how fake it is - but Anne is smiling wider than ever and cooing, so she must not realize.

“ _Harry,_ ” he hisses as soon as they’re alone in Harry’s bedroom together, pulling him further into the room and closing the door behind him. He’s thrown his bags on the bed, for now, can still hear Anne humming as she starts the kettle for tea in the kitchen. “What the fuck was that about?”

“I can explain,” Harry says quickly, and Niall rolls his eyes. “Look, when I told her you were coming here, she just assumed that it was because we were, like, dating again.”

“You could’ve told her we weren’t!”

“You didn’t see her, Niall,” Harry pouts. “She was so happy about it, I didn’t have the heart-”

“Are you joking?” he whisper-shouts, narrowing his eyes. “You mean I have to pretend to be your boyfriend for a week?”

“Bingo,” Harry says, offering him a weak smile, but Niall just glares at him. “It’s just a week, Niall, I promise it won’t be that hard. Afterwards I can just tell her we broke up.” _Again,_ Niall’s mind supplies helpfully. “If you really don’t want to, I understand, but you can be the one to tell my mother we’re not actually together.”

Niall sighs, pressing the heels of his palms to his eyes hard enough to see starbursts of yellow and red behind his eyelids, making up his mind as he does so. Everything about this situation is fucking weird. “Fine. Just for this week, and then it’s over, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Jesus. Can’t believe we’re doing this.”

“We’ll be fine,” Harry assures him, smiling and sticking his hand out for Niall to take as he opens the bedroom door. Niall eyes it cautiously. “Well, we have to look the part, don’t we?”

Niall grumbles something unintelligible under his breath, but takes his hand anyways, and tries to ignore how jarringly familiar it feels to have Harry’s fingers tangled with his again.

 

 

\---

 

 

Gemma comes home that afternoon, and Harry manages to rope both of them into helping him bake- which is pointless, seeing as the two get shunted to the side of the kitchen anyways. Apparently, their ‘surprising lack of skill’ is ‘sabotaging Harry’s culinary efforts’. Niall sits and scrolls through Harry’s Christmas playlist, picking out the good songs and absentmindedly watching Harry dice up an apple, the scent of sugar and cinnamon high in the air. He and Gemma mockingly imitate Harry as he works, frowning exaggeratedly the way Harry does when he concentrates, pretending to look nonchalant and bored when Harry turns to look at them.

Fat snowflakes flutter down outside as Harry babbles on about how he’s planning on visiting Barbara at the bakery if he gets the chance tomorrow, and how he’s going to take Niall to that brick wall by the creek where he scratched his name to see how well it’s held up.

Niall doesn’t feel out of place at all, weirdly enough, sitting here and laughing with Gemma and watching his pretend boyfriend bake. He hasn’t spent a prolonged amount of time with Harry like this since - well, since the end of the band, and since things sort of ended between them. And it really should be awkward, all things considered, but it isn’t. It’s back to being best friends, as familiar as if they’d never been apart at all.

That night, he and Harry sleep on opposite ends of the bed. Or, that’s how it starts, at least. They’re both awake for a long time, staring up at the ceiling and not speaking a word, until Harry finally breaks the silence.

“Is it cold in here, or is it just me?”

“No, it’s freezing. Are the blankets in the linen closet?”

Harry hums a _yes_ , rolling over onto his side to face Niall. “I don’t really feel like getting up, though.”

Niall mirrors him, shifting so that he can see Harry’s face properly. “Me neither.”

A hint of a smile crosses Harry’s face. “Could spoon, instead, if you wanted.”

“You read my mind,” Niall says, chest growing warm when Harry wriggles around quickly so that he’s pressed flush to Niall’s front, and it feels- it feels almost unbearably familiar. For what seems like the tenth time this week, he’s not sure how he got here. Ten days ago he hadn’t seen Harry in months, and now they’re in his bedroom in Holmes Chapel, spooning.

“Good night, Niall.”

Niall closes his eyes, the tip of his nose pressed into the nape of Harry’s neck. “Night, H.”

 

 

\---

 

 

“Time out,” Harry says, leaning back. “Need to stretch my legs.”

“Hurry up about it then, I wanna win this damn game already,” Gemma sighs, eyeing the Scrabble board in the middle of the coffee table. They’ve been playing for an hour already, sat on the floor in the living room because they were too lazy to move the couches closer.

“You never will,” Harry sniffs, clambering to his feet and arching his back so that his spine pops sharply. Niall and Gemma share a look over the table, wincing. “Niall? Care to join me in the kitchen?”

Harry sticks out a hand for Niall to take and hauls him up to his feet, palm warm and smooth against his. “We’ll only be a minute,” he tells Gemma, leading Niall towards the kitchen, who tries not to go red when Harry squeezes his hand. He’s still getting used to Harry being affectionate with him again, especially in front of Gemma and Anne.

He pushes himself up on the counter in the kitchen, his face hidden in the relative darkness. Harry doesn’t even bother flicking on the lights as he rummages through the cabinets for something, humming a song under his breath, and it only hits Niall a minute later that it’s one of their old songs. _Fireproof,_ he thinks, though Harry’s so quiet he can’t be sure.

“You been writing recently?” Harry asks suddenly, pulling out a box of biscuits with his back to him. He looks irresistibly cozy in his oversized jumper, and Niall feels warm just looking at him.  

“Yeah, a bit. You?”

Harry shrugs with one shoulder, tears the package open. “Here and there. Haven’t had much inspiration, if I’m being honest.”

“What’s that?” Niall asks, sliding off the counter to see what Harry’s eating and trying not to think too much about what that means. Harry always had plenty of inspiration when he was in the band at least. It was Taylor, first, and then a handful of others Niall never thinks too much about.

“Here,” Harry says. He breaks the biscuit in his hand in half, hands the bigger piece to Niall.

“Thought you were on a diet or somethin’,” Niall says around his mouthful. “No juice cleanse?”

“I stopped doing that stuff ages ago.”

 _How was I supposed to know,_ Niall thinks, just as Gemma calls from the living room.

“I don’t know what you’re doing in there, but we were in the middle of a game!”

Harry rolls his eyes and takes the rest of the biscuits with him as they head towards the living room- only he stops in the doorway suddenly and Niall bumps into his back. “Harry?”

Harry turns back towards him, his gaze flitting upwards to stare at the mistletoe dangling above them.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Niall groans. “That doesn’t count, I wasn’t even _under_ it before you turned around.”

“Shut up,” Harry hisses, casting a furtive glance back towards Gemma, who’s thankfully still engrossed in something on her phone. “She’ll hear you.”

“You can’t possibly think I’m actually going to-”

“S’just a kiss between friends, isn’t it?” Harry says, eyes now innocently wide, like he goes around for a casual snog with all of his friends. _Probably,_ Niall thinks, and there’s only a hint of bitterness to it.

“That’s not what Gem thinks.”

“So? It’s better for keeping up appearances,” Harry says, and the reminder stings a little. That this is all fake, that this isn’t something Niall gets to keep. “Besides, it’s bad luck if you don’t,” Harry adds firmly, and Niall’s faint _is it?_ is lost in the way Harry hooks his fingers through Niall’s belt loops and tugs him closer before kissing him.

It barely lasts a few seconds, but in that time, Niall’s unconsciously curled his fingers into the soft material of Harry’s jumper, pushed back harder, chasing the taste of chocolate on his lips. When Harry pulls away, he’s grinning, cheeks tinged pink, and it makes Niall’s heart go all swoopy for a second before he’s laughing nervously and stepping away to glance over at Gemma, who’s making an exaggeratedly disgusted face.

It’s fine, except that the feeling of this, of stealing kisses and wrapping arms around waists and sharing looks that hold meaning only for them - it’s achingly familiar. A younger Niall would have reveled in it, would have collected every second of memory as a keepsake to file away and study later, would have been giddily in love and relishing every second of it. But now - now it just makes his stomach hurt.

 

 

\---

 

 

The car is comfortably quiet as they speed through the snow-lined streets, Christmas music playing low on the radio. The fog is beginning to burn away as the sun draws up over the horizon, pale gold light glinting off the side of the car, and Niall watches Harry drive, his brow all furrowed up as he takes another turn too sharply.

Twenty minutes later, he Harry crunch through the frost-covered grass near the creek, headed towards the infamous brick wall. Neither of them speak, sort of reverently afraid to break the silence out here. It’s early in the morning, earlier than Niall would like to be up, but Harry claims they have too much to do today to put this off till later.

Niall’s also got his hand hovering behind the small of Harry’s back, entirely sure that Harry’s gonna end up slipping at some point and breaking a bone if Niall’s not always prepared to catch him. Which, of course, ends up happening, and it involves more injury than he’d hoped for.

Harry slips, and his arms start windmilling in an effort to stay upright, but Niall’s right next to him so the back of Harry’s hand connects with his face, and then _he’s_ stumbling backwards and slipping and falling. There’s a lot of panicked yelling involved, and it ends with the two of them on their backs in the freezing cold grass, groaning.

“For fuck’s sake,” Niall moans, lifting his hand to his forehead as if to check if there’s any blood- which there very might well be, with all those chunky rings Harry wears- but his fingertips come back dry. “Why can’t you just walk normally, like a _normal_ person-”

“Well maybe you shouldn’t have been walking right next to me, then you wouldn’t have fallen-”

“How is this my fault?” Niall snaps, still staring up at the steel colored sky.

“Shit,” Harry says suddenly, like Niall hadn’t spoken, and jolts upright. There’s a piece of grass sticking to his hair, mud all over his jacket. “Is your knee alright?”

Niall bends his leg experimentally, sighing with relief when nothing flares with pain. “Bit sore, but that’s from the cold,” he says, just to make Harry feel a little guilty for dragging him out here. Remorse is healthy.

“Good.” Harry struggles to his feet, brushing grass off his jeans. “Alright, up we go,” he sighs, reaching out his hand for Niall to take. He pulls him up, but- he uses too much force, because Niall stumbles into him, his hands coming up to brace himself on Harry’s chest, and their faces are suddenly much too close.

Harry seems to blank for a second, and Niall can hear his breath hitch- but then he’s grinning easily, stepping back to give him room. “Easy there, tiger,” he says, patting gently at Niall’s chest before turning around and continuing towards the wall like nothing happened.

Harry ends up having to re-scratch his name into the wall because it’s gotten so faint over the years, and Niall watches him work, arms folded over his chest as he shivers. Harry’s hand looks pale sticking out of the sleeve of his black coat, bones shifting and flexing underneath skin as he writes. Niall gets a bit distracted by it, so when Harry turns to him suddenly he feels caught out, like he’s doing something he shouldn’t have been doing.

“Here,” Harry says, offering the rock to him. “Do your name.”

“What?”

“Write your name,” Harry repeats, but it’s not impatient. Never is. Niall had liked that about Harry from the very start, the way he never made him feel stupid, the way he made him feel like he had all the time in the world to offer. “Go on.”

Niall has a split second of hesitation, thinking about what it means and what fans, people will think if they see it- but then he’s taking the stone from him, cold fingertips brushing together, and he’s made up his mind.

He writes his own name in much smaller letters, at the corner of the wall, can feel Harry’s eyes on him as he does it. He steps back afterwards, taking it in. _HARRY_ and _NIALL._

“Looks good,” Harry nods, and it doesn’t, really- it’s an old brick wall, and their handwriting is messy, lopsided, uneven, but he’s right. It looks good anyways.

No one recognizes them as they wander through the grocery store next. Harry’s not wearing a hat or anything, has got his sunglasses pushed up on his head, his hair curling around them. The cold has turned his ears a rosy pink, and Niall has half a mind to whip off his own beanie and fit it on Harry’s head so they don’t freeze off. He doesn’t, though. He just tags along as Harry bumbles through the aisles, pausing every now and then when something catches his eyes, putting things into the basket Niall doesn’t remember taking from him.

Somewhere in between the fresh produce and the baking chocolate, Harry loops his arm through Niall’s, whistling all the while. Niall lets him, doesn’t even react, even though something twinges in his gut. Maybe in a different universe, he thinks, they’re doing the very same thing. A normal, non-popstar Niall, linking his arms with his not-pretend boyfriend in a non-popstar Harry’s hometown, the very image of fuzzy domesticity.

That’s not them, though. It can’t be, he reminds himself, and doesn’t think any more of it all the way home, Harry bellowing along to _Let it Snow_ , Niall laughing and rolling the windows down to feel the wind slice against his face _._

 

 

\---

 

 

“Does it look right?” Harry inquires where he lays on his back in the snow, arms and legs splayed about. He moves them back and forth again, looking ridiculously concerned about the state of his snow angel, his cheeks bright pink. “Niall.”

"Looks fine, honest,” Niall sighs, tipping his head back and watching his breath billow out like smoke in the frigid air. It reminds him of the times he would sit on his bed in some five star hotel in a city only he managed to remember the name of, watching Louis and Zayn out on the balcony, spewing smoke at each other and wrinkling their nose and laughing like little kids.

The snow stops crunching, and Niall looks back down. Harry’s sitting up, careful not to ruin the shape of his snow angel. There’s snow in his hair, sparkling white in the sun; he’s forgotten a hat again, and this time Niall tugs his own off and wrestles it onto his big head before he can push him away.

“It’s unhygienic,” Harry moans, but make no move to take it off. “What if you’ve got lice?”

“I don’t have lice,” Niall huffs.

“Why don’t you make one?” Harry asks, patting the flat snow next to him, and Niall decides to humor him, lying down in the snow even though it’s cold as balls and he can feel freezing ice water seeping underneath his collar. He’s not even begun to move his arms, though, when Harry looms over him, head blotting out the sun.

“What are you doing?” Niall asks, and then Harry practically flops on top of him, his body weight crushing the air out of Niall’s lungs. “Harry!”

Harry’s hands worm their way underneath his five layers, ice-cold hands pressed against his skin, and Niall shrieks. “Fuck! Get your fucking-”

Harry laughs, loud and bright, and Niall flips them over so he’s on top and then they’re wrestling about in the snow like a couple of eight-year-olds, chucking snow at each other and shoving each other’s heads into the powder. Harry tackles him at one point, hears the little grunt leave his mouth when he lands flat on his back, Harry settled on top of him, hardly able to breathe with the hysterical laughter tumbling out of his mouth.

Harry’s face is close, close enough that he can smell the peppermint tea on his breath, eyes crinkled up with laughter lines and how hard he’s smiling. Niall’s eyes drop to his teeth, the two front ones slightly bigger than the rest, and his face is so familiar it makes him feel warm all over even though his jumper is rucked up and there’s snow stinging cold on the strip of bare skin there. If he closes his eyes, forgets the cold, they could be 18 and wrestling on the floor of the tour bus, or 22, fumbling about on a hotel bed and laughing their way through sex. 25, now, sinking into the snow.

“Boys!” Gemma calls from the door, but Niall doesn’t even turn his head to look at her. He sort of wants to stay here forever, in Harry’s backyard with Harry lying on top of him, breath fanning hot over his face. “Lunch is ready!”

Harry wriggles off him, and they lay in the snow for a few moments, catching their breath. And then Harry gets to his feet, sticking out a hand to help Niall up, the sun haloing his head as he smiles. _Truce?_ he asks. Niall takes his hand.

 

 

\---

 

 

Niall strums the guitar again, the note trembling underneath his fingertips. It’s Harry’s guitar, not his; the fire crackles noisily, and it’s warm enough that he’s taken off his fuzzy socks and folded them neatly nearby. He and Harry are sitting on the couch near the fireplace - well, laying, more like. He’s on one end, the curve of his spine sore from his hunched over position and the guitar in his lap; Harry’s on the other end, long legs stretched out, a tattered copy of _Catcher in the Rye_ in his hands and a look of intense concentration on his face as he reads.

“Niall,” Harry murmurs distractedly, brow furrowing. He’s still staring at the page. “What’s _rostrum_ mean?”

“Dunno,” he replies easily, adjusting his grip on the guitar. He’s been playing aimlessly for the last hour, going through some of his favorites and slipping in a couple of Harry’s songs as well. He thinks he might have noticed, based on the way his fingers twitched against the back cover when Niall segued into _Two Ghosts_ and the little smile that came up on his face.

“I wish things were different,” Harry sighs, shutting the book. Niall quirks an eyebrow, thrown by the sudden change in topic.

“What do you mean?”

“Like,” Harry hesitates, tipping his head back, exposing the line of his throat. “We’re lucky, yeah, to be doing what we do, living our dreams, but. I wish I could’ve gone to uni. Had a roommate, cram for final exams, graduate. All of it.”

Niall regards him carefully, heart feeling like it’s stuck in his throat. They’ve had this conversation before, all five of them, when they were in the band, so many times over. “Me too.”

“D’you reckon we would’ve met?” Harry asks, lifting his head to stare at him. The lines of his face are soft, open, shadows dancing over his jawline as the fire flickers. “Would we have run into each other, anyways? If we didn’t meet at X Factor.”

“You mean the band?”

“Yeah,” Harry shrugs with one shoulder. “But, like, us. Me and you.”

“Maybe,” Niall says quietly, reminded of how his imagination had run away with him that day in the grocery store, Harry at his side, arm linked with his. “Guess we’ll never know.”

“Guess we’ll never know,” Harry echoes, smiling a little. He pushes his socked feet against Niall’s, fitting the soles together, and Niall returns the smile, grip loosening around the neck of his guitar.

 

 

\---

 

 

Christmas Eve approaches, and Niall and Harry are sat in the kitchen making gingerbread houses like they’re 12 again. Anne’s famous hot cocoa sits in a pair of mugs in front of them, nearly finished; Niall glances over at Harry and laughs when he sees his chocolate mustache, pointing at it.

“Can you give me another gumdrop, please?” Harry mutters, wiping it off with the back of his hand.

“What color?”

“Blue.”

Niall pushes the whole bag over to him, picking up his icing bag again and lining the door. He’s still a bit miffed that Gemma came into the kitchen, made fun of them, and then took a picture of them when his house wasn’t even finished. It’s a cute picture, sure, but his house looks like shit in it. Looking back on it, it would have been perfect for those clickbait articles titled “Ten Photographs Taken Seconds Before Disaster.”

“Mini candy canes?” Harry asks, holding his hand out.

“Haz,” Niall laughs, glancing over at his house. “It looks amazing already. I don’t think you need more candy canes.”

“It has to be _perfect,_ ” Harry says, shaking his head.

And- really, Niall doesn’t know what makes him say it. He doesn’t know where it comes from, but something about Harry being all competitive and perfectionist about a fucking gingerbread house is getting on his nerves.

“Never satisfied, are you,” he mutters under his breath, and it comes out shockingly bitter as he grabs the candy canes and holds them out to Harry. Unfortunately, Harry hears it, because he stills, fixing Niall with a strange look.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” He doesn’t take the candy canes.

Niall shakes his head, keeping the words firmly on his tongue instead of letting them roll loose. “Nothing.” He sets the candy canes back down on the counter. He shouldn’t have fucking said anything. Today’s been nice. This whole week’s been great, actually. Tomorrow’s Christmas Eve, for fuck’s sake, and he didn’t mean to get into an argument about things that they can’t change.

Harry has other ideas, though. “C’mon, out with it. I know you’re thinking something.”

“I’m thinking about how my gingerbread house is better than yours,” Niall says calmly, refusing to take the bait.

“No, you’re not.”

“I’m thinking about how female kangaroos have six vaginas.”

“Niall.”

“I’m thinking about that time Louis dragged a shoelace across your face while you were sleeping and you woke up screaming.”

“Niall! _”_ Harry snaps, and when Niall glances up, startled, he looks genuinely ticked off. “Just fucking say what you’re really thinking.”

“Jesus, H,” Niall snorts, keeping his face straight. A calm sea. “I’m not thinking about anything important.”

“You’re thinking about me,” Harry says firmly, jaw feathering, “and you’re mad. I can tell, Niall. I’ve known you for eight years.”

“Five,” Niall retorts instantly, squeezing the icing bag harder than necessary. The icing squirts out and makes a mess, and he scrapes some off with the side of his finger, frowning. “You weren’t around for the other three.”

“And there it is,” Harry says, folding his arms. “You’re mad.”

“Think I have the right to be.”

“Why?”

Niall blurts it out before he has a chance to rethink, sudden emotion getting the better of him. “Because you left after X Factor without saying goodbye, and the next fucking thing I know, you’re plastered over the tabs on a fucking _yacht_ with Kendall _fucking_ Jenner.”

The two of them are stunned into silence, nothing but the refrigerator hum in the background. Niall’s still got his icing bag in a death grip. It’s like time has slowed around them, pulling thick around him, making his thoughts blur. When he finally finds his words again, he can’t look at Harry’s slack-jawed face as he says it.

“I know we weren’t in, like. A proper relationship. Like, boyfriends and stuff.” He takes a deep breath, wonders briefly how he got here. Why he’s saying these things, even if they’re true, even if it still hurts. “I dunno, I just thought I meant more to you than a friend whose you liked to get off with sometimes, like Xander and everyone else. Thought you would have at least said goodbye.”

“Niall,” Harry breathes, shoulders slumping with his exhale. “I didn’t-”

“Went on to bigger and better things, didn’t you? And then you - just cut off contact, from all of us, and that was it.” Realizing Harry wasn’t coming back, that night when the pictures flooded twitter- it hurt like hell. And afterwards, it wasn’t like he’d tried especially hard to reach out, because Niall’s not _stupid_ , he knows when he’s not wanted. Things between them ended, like most things do, not with a bang, but with a whimper. Communication petered out, and then lapsed into silence. Niall moved on. Harry never called.

“Niall,” Harry starts, and he looks like he’s going to cry. “You - I didn’t know. I’m sorry. For leaving, I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, well,” Niall mutters, tracing the edge of his gingerbread roof with a finger. “Would’ve helped if you’d said that then.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry repeats, and he looks like he means it. “I’ve been a shit friend, haven’t I?”

“Yeah,” Niall sighs, laughing drily. “Sort of.”

Harry’s fingers twitch where they rest on the counter, like he wants to reach out and touch him, but thinks better of it. The pulse of Niall’s heart feels muted as he watches Harry swipe a paper towel over the counter to get rid of the gingerbread crumbs and the icing he’d spilled.

“I’ll try harder,” Harry says softly.

“Harry-”

“No, I will,” he insists, leaning closer, jaw set. “I’m gonna start being a better friend.”

“Right. Is that your New Year’s Resolution, then?” Niall asks mockingly, because he can’t help himself.

“Yeah, it is.”

He and Harry stare at each other until Niall can’t do it any longer, and looks away, something churning uneasily in his gut.

 

 

\---

 

 

“I can’t tell you how glad I am that you and Harry finally worked things out,” Anne says, and Niall barely stops himself from flinching. Harry and Gemma have gone out for some last minute grocery shopping; Niall’s been helping Anne cook all day, and he’s exhausted. “I always knew you’d end up together, one way or another.”

“How?”

Anne shrugs, her smile soft. “Mother’s intuition, I suppose. You two always had something special. When you meet someone and connect with them, when you find a love like that - lasts forever, doesn’t it? You have to fight for it, sometimes, but it’s worth it.”

Niall wants to agree with her, needs to make his act convincing, but all he can do is blink down at his hot cocoa and sit quietly. His silence has just stretched a beat too long to be passed off as pensiveness, he can feel Anne’s question coming - but then the front door creaks open and Harry and Gemma bluster in, hands full of grocery bags. Niall gets to his feet so quick the hot cocoa nearly sloshes out of his mug.

“They didn’t have parsnips,” Harry is grumbling, struggling to toe his shoes off. Gemma pushes past him impatiently. “What grocery store doesn’t have parsnips?”

“Why d’you need parsnips?” Niall snorts, watches him flounder for a moment more before crouching down and undoing the laces so it’s easier for him. Harry makes a pleased noise, beaming down at Niall as he kicks his shoes off. They both land upside down.

“Thanks, babe,” he murmurs, pulling Niall to his feet and pressing a fleeting kiss to his lips. Niall burns, feeling Anne’s gaze still on them, and deliberately avoids looking at her as he trails after Harry into the kitchen.

“Was gonna use ‘em in a salad,” Harry informs him, and Niall stares at him blankly before realizing he’s still going on about the parsnips. “Glenne sent me this recipe, I’ll show you later…”

The rest of Harry’s chatter blends into the background noise as Niall helps him unpack the groceries, mind buzzing. He can’t stop thinking about what Anne said. _You have to fight for it, sometimes._ But the fight is over, isn’t it? Harry made his decision when he got on that bloody yacht, when he turned his phone off and Niall couldn’t reach him and got sent a ten word text a month later. There isn’t anything to fight for, anymore. It’s over. Besides, he reasons, Anne didn’t know the full story. Any mother would start spouting sappy shit about love if their kid seemed to be in it.

He keeps repeating that to himself until he forgets about it in lieu of stealing half of Harry’s lunch.

 

 

\---

 

 

The next few days pass surprisingly quickly. The four of them attend midnight mass on Christmas day dressed to the nines, and it reminds Niall of home, and how he would always fall asleep on his mum’s shoulder or in his da’s arms when he was younger. They have dinner with a bunch of family friends, and it’s nice enough, although though Niall misses his own family something fierce, even after Facetiming them. He’s still a bit miffed about how much more excited Theo was to see Harry on screen than him.

It’s New Years Eve, though, when things start to fall apart.

It’s just the four of them at home, going a bit too heavy on the champagne, when Harry approaches him in the kitchen.

“I have to talk to you,” Harry hisses into his ear. “C’mon.”

Niall doesn’t even have time to protest before Harry’s yanking on his sleeve and taking them outside.

“What is it?” Niall sighs, pushing the glass door shut behind them. It’s bloody freezing out here. He hopes whatever Harry has to say won’t take too long, because he’s only wearing his socks and he’s pretty certain his toes will fall off after a minute or two.

Harry inhales slowly through his nose as if steeling himself for something, and a bolt of panic hits him. Maybe he’s going to reveal that he’s a murderer. A serial killer. Maybe he’s dying. Maybe he’s got some weird, incurable disease that- “Anne knows.”

Niall blinks. “What?”

“Is it that surprising?” Harry says. “C’mon. I know you believe every word that comes out of my mouth, but surely-”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

Harry sighs, regarding him with a blank look on his face.

“She’s known that we were faking it from the start, Niall. You really thought I couldn’t have just explained to her, that you were coming as a friend and not my boyfriend?”

Niall gapes, opening and closing his mouth like a fish. He’s still having trouble catching up. “Wait, so you- but I thought-”

“It’s not that complicated. I lied to you, Niall. So that you would go along with it.”

“But- but why?”

“Jesus, do you need me to spell it out for you?”

“No, I just don’t get why you’d need me to pretend to be your boyfriend if we didn’t have to-”

“Because I’m still in love with you, you idiot!” Harry snaps, voice sharp in the biting cold stillness. “I just wanted you back with me, and I, for some reason, thought this would be a good idea.” It feels like he’s been sucker punched, with the way the air leaves his lungs and he gets all dizzy. He can’t seem to force any words out or hear anything but Harry’s voice echoing in his head. _Still in love, still in love, still in love._

“I can’t,” is the first thing that comes out of his mouth. Harry’s face turns a tinge hopeful, for some reason. 

“So you still love me.”

“No-” Harry’s face crumples- “I mean, yeah, but like, I don’t-” Niall groans, rubbing a hand over his face. “Fuck. I mean I can’t do this again, Harry. You- you said you were in love with me three years ago, but you still left. I know you’re gonna do it again, and I won’t put myself through that another time.”

“I’m not gonna leave you-”

“I can’t take that risk, Harry.”

Harry’s face gets all hard, closed off. “You can’t? Or you won’t?”

“Stop it,” Niall says, just as quiet. “Stop.”

“But think about it,” Harry urges, taking a step closer. “Don’t you remember how we were when we were in the band? We were good together, Niall, we could be like that again-”

“Except you fucked it up by leaving,” Niall reminds him.

“Because I was scared! I didn’t know what I was doing, or what I wanted, and I needed to get my head on straight.”

“That doesn’t excuse what you did to me-”

“I know it doesn’t, and I’m sorry. Honest to god,” Harry adds, after Niall rolls his eyes. He spares a glance inside through the window at the TV - they’ve less than a minute left till midnight. “I regret what I did to you every fucking day. But I’m not scared anymore, Niall. I know what I want, and that’s you.”  

“I can’t do it, Harry,” Niall snaps. “It’s too late for a second fucking chance. It’s over.” He sucks in a sharp breath, the cold air filling his lungs. “It’s over.”  

The wind whips at Harry’s hair in the dark, the kitchen lights lighting his eyes up, tears glistening in them. He looks devastated, and the words have left a bitter taste in Niall’s mouth, but he can’t take it back.

“Shit, Haz,” he sighs as the first tear spills down Harry’s cheek. “Let’s not ring in the new year crying, alright?” He reaches up to wipe the tears away, but Harry shoves his hand away, hard.

“Shut up,” he hisses, brows knit together. “You - you’re a fucking coward, Niall.”

Niall blinks, stunned. His world feels tilted off its axis, all wonky, because - because Harry’s never once gotten heated with him. Not without there being an edge of humor to it, a joking smirk following his words.

“You won’t give us a chance because you’re scared,” Harry continues, volume rising. Inside, on the TV, midnight hits. Gemma and Anne cheer, raising their glasses; the camera cuts to shots of people kissing, laughing into each other’s mouths as the clock begins crawling towards 12:01. “But I know you know we’re meant to be together, Niall. You’re all I want - Christ, you’re all I’ve ever wanted, even when I was too fucking blind to see it.”

“Harry-”

“You’re it, for me.” Harry gasps out, lower lip trembling. “And I know I’m it for you.”

“How the fuck should you know that?” Niall asks, just to be stubborn, just to pretend like everything’s not falling apart.

“Just shut up, Niall,” Harry says, and Niall can tell he’s only twisted the knife deeper. In theory, he’d rather cut off a limb than hurt Harry, but look at him now. Look at them now. “If you’re giving up on us, just stop.”

He doesn’t know what’s worse - Harry yelling at him, insulting him, calling him a coward, or Harry’s voice being lost in the wind with how quiet it is, how defeated. There’s a long stretch of silence, and then, “The flights are back up. I haven’t bought your tickets yet, but there’s one day after tomorrow-”

“I’ll buy them,” Niall tells him, voice raw. “I’ll do it, don’t worry. Be out of your hair soon enough.”

“Okay,” Harry whispers, dropping his gaze. Something helpless twists in Niall’s chest at the sight. “I’m gonna go in, now.”

“I’ll come in a bit, go ahead.”  

Harry nods slightly, just a dip of his head, and then he’s turning around and sliding the glass door open, shoulder bumping the wall as he slips inside. Niall watches him go, sees him pass through the kitchen through the window and then into the living room, where Anne and Gemma turn towards him.

He can still see the blotchiness of Harry’s cheeks, the disheveled state of his hair. Anne takes his face in her hands as he cries, telling him something, and then he hugs her, sobbing into the top of her head as she rubs a hand down his back. None of them do so much as spare Niall a single glance, even though he knows they would be able to see him, even in the dark. It hurts more than it should.

He stands there in the cold, wrapping his arms around himself the way Harry had done as he watched him cry, the TV still blaring on behind the three of them. The stars burn bright overhead, and he doesn’t even realize it’s snowing until he blinks and sees white on his eyelashes. It melts quickly, water trickling down his face in place of the tears he doesn’t have the energy to muster up.

 

 

\---

 

 

The street lamps outside are lit, casting a orange glow over everything. Snow blankets the streets, lining the windowsill, the sidewalks, the roofs. It’s quiet, quiet enough that Niall’s left alone with just his thoughts and not much else.

He can’t sleep at all, can’t relax in the slightest; he’s been alternating between staring up at the ceiling and out the window for the last two hours. He’s exhausted, mentally and physically, but Harry’s crowding his head, taking up every second of thought, wearing him down. He can’t stop replaying their argument over and over again, dissecting every last shred of emotion that had coated his tongue, the words he should’ve said but didn’t. He can’t stop thinking about Harry, specifically, either; the way his hair curls at the nape of his neck, the way his smile quirks up on the right side, about the way his mouth tasted like peppermint when he kissed him beneath the mistletoe. About the two of them together, about himself, about his love for Harry, imprinted on his skin more permanent than any tattoo could ever be.

He understands what Anne was talking about, now, and what Harry yelled at him about just hours ago. He and Harry understand each other in ways he knows will never be possible with anyone else. Harry has the best parts of him, has drunken 2AM laughter and tearful confessions and whispered dreams he didn’t dare speak aloud to anyone else. In turn, he’s got the best of Harry, has his deepest secrets and his worries and doubts, the ones that plague him at every turn even though he’ll never show it.

 _Aren’t we worth fighting for?_ Niall stares out of the window, watching the street lamp nearest him flicker and buzz as the snow swirls down around it.

He hasn’t quite thought it all the way through when he slides out of bed, careful to tread quietly as he makes his way out of the bedroom and towards the guest room.

Harry is lying on his back, clearly still awake, but he shuts his eyes as soon as Niall steps in.

“I know you’re not sleeping,” he whispers, staring down at him. The palms of his hands are itching, sweaty. “Budge up. We need to talk.”

“We’ve talked enough,” Harry grunts, eyes still closed. “I’m tired of discussing it.”

“Harry.”

“I’m asleep.”

“ _Harry._ ”

Harry responds by pretending to snore loudly, and even though he’s acting like a child and Niall’s getting a bit frustrated, it still makes his heart clench in fondness.

Since Harry’s obviously intent on not speaking, Niall crawls over him so he can lay down on the other side, kneeing him in the thigh as he flops down.

“You’ve got bony knees,” Harry observes, finally twisting on to his side so that they’re facing each other.

“When I had surgery, they took out all the fat in ‘em. That’s why they’re so skinny.”

“I don’t remember you having chubby knees before surgery.”

“That’s your only issue?”

“And that’s not how surgery works.”

“How would you know? Have you had surgery on your knees?”

Harry laughs a little, the sound still a tad watery. Niall reaches out, takes Harry’s hand in his. Relief washes over him when Harry doesn’t pull away, and tangles their fingers together instead, eyes soft in the dim light filtering in through the window.

“I’m sorry for what I said, earlier. When I told you that it was over and it was too late.”

“But it’s the truth, isn’t it?”

“It’s not, Harry,” Niall whispers. The lines of Harry’s face look so delicate, so familiar. A face he’s studied, memorized, kissed, cherished. “I still love you. Probably always will.”

Harry exhales shakily, his breath fanning gently over Niall’s face. It smells like champagne and toothpaste, but Niall doesn’t mind. “Please don’t lie to me to make me feel better.”

“It’s not a lie,” Niall says firmly. “I’m in love with you, even though it scares me half to death. What I said about not wanting to take a chance on you, about you breaking my heart again - it’s too late for that, really. You already have all of me, Harry. You have for a long time, actually, and I reckon it’s time for me to stop being scared of that.”

Harry’s started crying again, halfway through his bit, and Niall’s eyebrows knit together in a frown. “C’mon, H, don’t cry.”

“I’m not, like,” Harry sniffles, crying harder, but there’s a faint smile on his face. “Happy tears. I’m happy crying.”

Niall laughs, the sound filling up the space between them, and Harry smiles bigger, tear tracks shining in silver lines down his cheeks.

“I’m sorry too,” Harry says after a bit, voice breathless. “For lying, and making you my pretend boyfriend.”

“I didn’t mind all that much, I’ll be honest,” Niall admits. Their hands are still linked together between them. Harry grins.

“Will you be my boyfriend for real, then?”

“Yes, idiot,” Niall says, can hardly speak with how wide he’s smiling. “Of course I will.”

Harry kisses him, and technically it isn’t an amazing one- mostly because the angle’s awkward and Harry’s still sort of crying while he does it- but at the same time, it’s the best kiss he’s ever had. It feels like Harry’s taking all his words, all his promises and the _i love you_ ’s and searing them onto Niall’s skin. It feels like relenting. Like something he’ll never ever tire of.

It feels like home.

  


(x)

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! please let me know if you liked it (:


End file.
